Dreaming of Memories
by Hekate1308
Summary: The dreams haven't stopped, even though Sherlock returned. But he's back, and that's all that matters. John, Post-Reunion.


**Author's note: I know this has been done at least hundreds of times before, but I wanted to try this idea. **

**I don  
t own anything, please review.**

I do not care for my dreams… I never have. Even when I was a child, my dreams usually scared me. They were rarely comforting. They always took me away from the things I loved most. I hated falling asleep.

I still do, in a way, because the pattern of my dreams never changed. True, the subject changed, but the loss and fear I felt while they lasted never did. As a child, I dreamt mostly about the bogeyman, or some other supernatural being hiding in my closet and dragging me into his world, away from my family. I woke up crying every time, and my parents tried to comfort me. Harry usually laughed, until she realized how frightened I really was. Then she tried to help me deal with my dreams too.

After I had started school until the end of my studies in medicine, I dreamed about failing. I have never been able to handle failure well. I wanted to become a doctor, and to join the army, and the thought that I wouldn't make it was almost unbearable.

The dreams stopped, however, once I had joined the army. Once I was in Afghanistan. I had too much to do to worry about them. And I witnessed my failures every day: soldiers died, they would never return to their families. War is cruel enough without nightmares.

And then I was shot, invalided home, and the nightmares came back.

Before I met Sherlock, I dreamed of the war, of the people I had left behind. The dreams stopped when I met the consulting detective, though. Sherlock gave me back the purpose he had lost; Sherlock gave me a reason to get up in the morning, a reason to smile, a reason to live. Before, I had stared at the gun in my drawer each day, wondering why I didn't pull the trigger. But then –

Then, Mike Stamford introduced me to a madman, a madman who didn't eat or sleep enough, a madman who demanded he helped him catch criminals, a madman who was, despite the holes in the wall and body parts in the fridge, my whole world. And I didn't dream. There was no time for dreams, there was hardly time for sleep. Sherlock wouldn't allow me more than a few hours, most of the time, and I was glad for it.

And then, just when I was happy, just when I had finally realized that this was where I belonged, at his side, his partner in crime, his best friend – he jumped off a building.

He committed suicide and left me alone, just like I had been before we met.

I don't remember much of the three years he was gone, to be honest. I have some vague recollections of nightmares – of course, what else – about Sherlock's fall, and Harry trying to support me, but that's it. I think it's because, in the end, these years don't matter; I just tried to survive without my best friend. Survive in a world where Sherlock Holmes was considered a fraud, a world where everyone told me the man I'd known had never existed. I suppose my limp came back again; it's hard to say. And in the end, I don't care, because it came down to three utterly wasted years.

But he came back. He came back, and everything was again as it was supposed to be, and I couldn't be happier.

Or at least, that's what I thought. Because, even though Sherlock had returned, the dreams didn't stop. That is, my dreams, or nightmares as I should call them – they didn't stop because he returned, like they had when I met them. They still come to me every night, every time I fall asleep. I wish I could do something against these dreams.

I suppose they are dreams, I am convinced they are dreams, because every time they stop, I wake up in my bed or the sofa at 221B, and most of the time Sherlock demands I do something. And that's every prove I need.

That doesn't mean the dreams don't bother me, though.

I don't understand them; before, I always understood them. I can understand why I saw the bogeyman, why I was back in Afghanistan, why I saw Sherlock falling over and over. But I don't understand what these dreams mean.

They are always the same, and yet they are all different, in a way.

A white room. I'm locked into the room, but I don't understand why. There's a bed. I'm sitting on the bed. I can hear Harry's voice from the – I guess it's a corridor. There must be a corridor behind the locked door that's keeping me in this room, although I don't understand why I'm there. I don't want to be there. I don't like being locked in.

So I concentrate on Harry's voice. Though, to be precise, the first time I dreamed about the room, it wasn't Harry's voice I heard, but a man's.

"A relapse... I'm sorry, Miss Watson, but..."

I couldn't understand what he said after that, but I heard Harry – who seemed to be answering the man – quite clear.

"I don't understand. He was fine. I took him in, and when Clara and I told him we thought about adoption, he was excited... He was looking forward to having a niece or a nephew."

It was then that I knew this had to be a dream. Because Harry and Clara split when I was still in Afghanistan, and I remember having to comfort my sister when I got back, even though we rarely talked after I met Sherlock. But then, we'd hardly ever got on in the first place.

When I woke up, I thought this was it, Sherlock had come back only the day before, after all. But I still dream about the room, and Harry. Sometimes she's talking to someone in the corridor, sometimes she is in the room, talking to me.

"John... John. Please. Me and Clara, we want you back. We are going to adopt a child, remember? You are going to be an uncle".

I asked her whether she could adopt a child, being an alcoholic (while keeping my voice even) and she flinched. I instantly felt bad about it and tried to comfort her, but she said, "John, don't you remember – I quit after you came back. I looked after you when you got – when you weren't well. You have been living with me, and Clara, when we reconciled, ever since."

"I live with Sherlock" I answered immediately, smiling. "He came back, Harry. He came back".

Suddenly, she stood up and ran out of the room, and I was sure she was crying. But before I could reach out to her, I was sitting on the sofa in 221B (I really must stop falling asleep on the sofa) and Sherlock demanded I get him a body part.

Everything was normal, then.

Everything is normal, as normal as it can get when you live with the only consulting detective in the world, but the dreams still bother me.

There was the one where I could hear Harry and Clara talking in the corridor. This time, I wasn't sitting on the bed, I was rolled up to a ball in the corner.

"You'll see, Harry, he will get over it. He's done it before, hasn't he? He was fine for three years. After Sherlock "died". This is just a phase."

"But Clara – " Harry sounded hysterical. "I just don't get it. One day, he was fine, cooking us both dinner, happy to become an uncle, the next – he was chattering about Sherlock coming back. Not even realizing where he was, what he was saying. How – "

"I know it isn't easy, but we'll manage. Together."

So, maybe, this dream wasn't as bad as the others, after all. Dreaming about Harry and Clara being back together had its advantages. It still has. It's nice imagining my sister with the woman she loved (at least I think she loved her, but then, who could say with Harry).

The other dreams – they weren't so nice.

There was the man's voice again, he was talking to Harry.

"Miss Watson, please, I know this isn't easy, but – is there a possibility he didn't take his medicine?"

"He took them!" Harry almost screamed. Then she cleared her throat. "I apologize".

"There's no need, Miss Watson" the man replied, his voice soft. "I understand this is difficult."

A pause. Then, Harry said "He took his medicine. Clara and I made sure he did. Even after three years. The two years before – they were bad enough. John insisting there was a "consulting detective" he lived with. We really thought – we thought it was over."

"So did we, but anything can happen to the mind of a man. I wish I could give you a better diagnosis, but at the moment... I think it would be better if he stayed here."

"I understand" Harry answered, sounding lost, and I frowned. No matter if this was a dream or not, I didn't like the way she sounded.

Only a moment later, Sherlock was pocking me, demanding that I listen to him, and we were in a cab, going to a crime scene – I really should get more sleep in the flat. Waking up in a cab with my flatmate poking me is rather annoying, whether he's my best friend or not.

The dreams grew less and less frequent after that. I was grateful. I have never cared much for my dreams, and now that Sherlock is back, who needs dreams anyway?

And nowadays, I don't remember them as well as I used to. I don't want to anyway. I don't want to listen to Harry's desperate pleading, or to Clara trying to comfort her.

There was one dream I still remember very well, though.

I was in the room, the white room, and Harry was there, and Clara, and a man I'd never seen before, but felt sure was the one I'd heard talking to Harry, without knowing why.

He was looking at me. "John? It's me, Doctor Nolan. Can you hear me?"

I just stared blankly at him, because why should I answer a figment of my imagination? He sighed and turned to Harry.

"I'm sorry, Miss Watson, but his responses have decreased and seem to decrease more and more... The change in medication didn't work the way we hoped it would. I'm afraid he will stay here for an undetermined period of time".

Harry started to cry, and Clara hugged her, whispering soothing words in her ear. I was wondering whether I should say something – it was still my dream, after all – but the kitchen exploded and I had to go clean up the mess Sherlock made.

I rarely dream, now. From time to time, in my half-sleep – or rather, when I doze off in the cab or on the sofa, because it rarely happens when I'm in bed – I can hear Harry's voice calling my name, each time sounding more and more desperate, and I remind myself that I should give her a call. She's still my sister, after all, even though my life is dedicated to keep a certain someone alive, who's busy dissecting a brain in the kitchen at the moment.

And then, dreams are just dreams, in the end.

And I prefer it that way.

**Author's note: I tried to be somewhat original with an idea that many people have done. I just think it's fascinating, and I wanted to put up my own version. **

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


End file.
